


the undying; the unholy

by Fourier



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dream Sex, F/F, Nightmares, Past Sexual Abuse, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourier/pseuds/Fourier
Summary: In the first four months after the city’s liberation, Cassandra dreams the dreams of the undying.She dreams of her brother running away from her body in the snow. She dreams of rebellions, and of capture. She dreams of acid pits, of ziggurats, of a mind left addled by spells and charms and of a girl that went along willingly. And yes, of Sylas.  Of the things he did to her family, to her city, to her. Of his grin, the fanged teeth, the way he laughed as he called her his favorite little toy.But the dreams she dreads are the ones of Delilah.-A companion piece toThe Dead and Damned, for the scars left on the other surviving de Rolo.





	the undying; the unholy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Dead and Damned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8225792) by [sparxwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites). 



In the first four months after the city’s liberation, Cassandra dreams the dreams of the undying.

They are the dreams of a girl who was thought dead but was not; who should have died but did not; who wanted, sometimes, to die but could not. They are the dreams of liches, of necromancy, of corpses rising from their graves. They are the dreams sowed in her throat and lungs by the unholy undead, the aberrations, the monsters that slept in her quarters for years.

She dreams of her brother running away from her body in the snow. She dreams of rebellions, and of capture. She dreams of acid pits, of ziggurats, of a mind left addled by spells and charms and of a girl that went along willingly. And yes, of Sylas.  Of the things he did to her family, to her city, to _her._ Of his grin, the fanged teeth, the way he laughed as he called her his favorite little toy.

But the dreams she dreads are the ones of Delilah.

(Delilah. Delilah. Her mother. Her sister. Her rapist. Her first. Her lover. Her torturer. Her confidant. Her everything. Delilah.)

And in the dreams--in the dreams, she feels Delilah’s imprints on her mind. She feels them seeping into the walls of her consciousness. She feels the way the dream warps and shifts under her skin, pushes at her, comes clear and sharp into focus: and there is Cassandra, knelt on her bed, skirts gathered in her hands as Delilah approaches.

 _Cassandra_ , Delilah says, and it echoes echoes echoes in the room, in her skull. _Darling girl. Lie back for me_.

And she does, settles back into the soft feathers of the bed, peers down her own body at Delilah as she lifts her skirts for her. Delilah inhales, soft and reverent, as she climbs towards Cassandra; her hand on Cass’s leg, her eyes trailing up her body.

(And Cass remembers this scene, remembers a thousand scenes like it, remembers the sickness that rose in her throat; but now, watching it unfold again, she sees only anticipation in her face; obedience; desire.)

 _Lie back_ , Delilah says again, pushes Cassandra’s skirts higher. _Lie back, hold these for me, darling, that’s it, lie back_ , and Cassandra does, gathers her skirts higher, even smiles as Delilah’s hands run down her thighs, to the soft mound between her legs.

 _Beautiful_ , Delilah says, _beautiful, beautiful, beautiful_ , and it doesn’t stop, it reverberates through her skull even as Delilah lowers her mouth to Cassandra’s clit and Cassandra--

\--Cassandra, in reality, in her memories, screamed. Or gritted her teeth. Or shuddered violently, with revulsion, with anger. But here, in the dream, in the dream--

\--Cassandra moans, open-mouthed, eyes blown wide, and Delilah grips her hips with renewed vigor and presses her mouth harder, sends ripples up Cass’s spine.

 _Beautiful,_ Delilah’s voice reminds her as Delilah’s fingers find Cass’s cunt, as they slip inside easy and warm and slick. _beautiful beautiful beautiful_

Cassandra’s body is not _hers_ \--she has known this for years, has learned it again and again. It is Delilah’s, first and foremost; it listens to her, it responds when she touches it, it yields to the pleasure she tries to coax from it. So when her fingers, elegant and confident, find the spot inside Cassandra that sends fire through her stomach, Cass is not surprised, even here.

But when Delilah leans up--when she shifts to lean over Cass, kisses her so Cassandra can taste herself on her lips--when she leans over Cass’s shoulder and whispers into her ear _darling girl, you love this, don’t you?_ and Cassandra can feel herself nodding, enthusiastic and honest--

She wants to wake up. She wants this to end. She knows, all the same, that it won’t.

Delilah’s fingers are skilled. They’re precise. They find their mark, draw yearning from Cassandra’s body in waves; and at the same time Cassandra can hear herself moaning, begging, asking _yes yes yes_ and _please_ and _oh, Gods_ and all the things Delilah wanted, so desperately, to hear.

 _That’s it_ , Delilah says, _do you want to come for me, Cassandra?_

And her dream-self, this rotten thing, this ruined, broken girl that Delilah crafted with white gloved hands, begs _please, yes, please let me_.

 _Then do it_ , Delilah demands, and Cassandra tips over the edge with a gasp, with joyous laughter, with her hand searching for Delilah’s face and Delilah leaning in to kiss her--

Cass wakes, her hand is between her legs, her body twitching in the last throes of orgasm.

She barely has time to free her hands before she is leaning over the side of the bed, violently ill, stomach spilling nothing but bile. Her head pounds; her chest aches; her legs are damp; she wants to scrub herself clean until the skin comes off.

 _She’s gone,_  Cassandra thinks, and it doesn’t matter. _She’s dead_ , and that matters even less.

She thinks for a moment about settling back into bed, but the smell of vomit fills the room--and worse, the sheets are damp, her smallclothes even moreso. So she stands, and she walks, away from her bed, away from the dark, down the torchlit hallways of Whitestone castle.

If she was Sylas’s favorite toy, she thinks, she was Delilah’s favorite game. And Delilah won her years ago.  


End file.
